Flicks of a Brush
by reminiscent-afterthought
Summary: Painting was art. But for him, it was also a reprieve. And with no other medium available to him in his solitude, what else could he use to paint his life but his own blood?
1. Depiction

Author's Notes

I debated with the rating quite a bit with this one, and eventually tossed it into T. If anyone thinks it's crossing the border, tell me and I'll shift it into M. I'm still rather iffy at the distinctions. Especially when it comes to psychological minddrabble and angst. I wrote the lot as a oneshot, then decided it reads better split. So this doesn't count as a multichaptered fic in progress, one because it's done, and two because it was a oneshot till after its completion. Says so right here in my rulebook *holds up imaginary book*. See?

And if there's any gaps in knowledge, that's because it's a snapshot. I included anything important though, although some you need your mind to elaborate on yourself.

Basically one of those 'and they do _not_ live happily ever after fics'. I know the general idea is a little clichéd, and I have done it before with Bloodstained Night, but I pop different twists and turns and quirks in them, so it's all good.

Inspired by Macbeth. You'll know what parts where when you see it. Those scenes are quite famous.

Anyway, enjoy, and tell me what you think.

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><p><span>Flicks of a Brush<span>

Painting was art. But for him, it was also a reprieve. And with no other medium available to him in his solitude, what else could he use to paint his life but his own blood?

Kouichi K/Koichi & Kouji M/Koji

Rating: T

Genre/s: Angst

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><p><span>Part 1 of 2 - Depiction<span>

He was thirteen. But he felt as if he was six again, dipping his stubby childhood fingers into the pallet of red paint and dragging the crimson coated digits across the paper spread before him. But it wasn't red paint anymore...or it was, of a sort. The crimson liquid that sustained life, blackened where dried and redder where moist coated his fingertips now was neither as vibrant or as artificial, but the same time, not as real.

It was not paper this time, nor paint. Rather, blood and water mixed as the cold faucet numbed his fingers and removed the stains. Refusing to mix and be washed away, clear white, pink and red danced across the porcelain inner surface, staining slowly yet firmly, dull under the murky white but darkening and permanently marking its trail down the drain. The droplets of water made it glimmer, giving shine to the crimson trails drying in the moist and slightly heavy air. The windows were shut. So was the door. Alone, he stood, watching the blood washing, but not being washed away.

The door opened and closed behind him, and a pale hand, untainted, reached over and closed the faucet, stopping the cold trail of water.

'Your hands are freezing,' Kouji's voice said softly in his ears, long, pure black hair tickling the sensitive skin on his neck as the younger twin grasped the blood-coated hands without seeing the blood. There was worry in that tone; he had to wonder how many times this ritual had taken place over the year. Sometimes, it seemed so insignificant though. Couldn't have been that many.

The other looked down at his hands, still seeing the vibrant blood, still smelling that putrid copper. Closing his eyes tight, he resisted the urge to grab the soap sitting innocently near the edge and scrub till they were clean; whoever said soap helped keep hands clean were wrong. Wrong! All it did was spread the blood, darken it, promote it...

The other handed him a towel, watching him worriedly, carefully, as his brother accepted it and folded the top over its hands. It was white...well, it had began white, until the towel greedily soaked up the blood.

He handed it back without using it. It didn't matter anyway; his hands were that wet, water wise. The cold winter air drafting in (apparently, Kouji had left the front door open, or at least a kitchen window or something of that sort) was already aiding the evaporation, helped along by the natural body heat that he sometimes felt not.

Kouji looked him, once again not knowing what to say. He knew what. He knew why...vaguely. But he didn't really know _why_. In other words, he understood the surface, but not the significant interior within lay both the box and the key to unlock it.

It pained him greatly. Seeing his brother suffering. But it pained him more that he couldn't help. Couldn't do anything.

Kouichi knew that. Perhaps that was why he barely saw at all. It was one thing, if he ever could, he would change about his brother. Hiding his problems away so they barely touched others, keeping the pain and turmoil inside. Washing away guilt that should have been long eradicated, but persisted because it had been written into his very soul.

He could do little. Being there, maybe, but how could he truly be _there_ if he didn't understand where? In the end, the only thing he could really do was help the mask stay up. Goodness knew what would happen if it broke.

It should never had come to this. Perhaps if he had noticed earlier. But what could one blind ultimately do against sights they could not see? Except tell them so and draw them back behind the veil with them.

'C'mon Kou. Put a smile on your face.'

He did so obediently, lips moving under the other's soft, clean touch, staying in that position once the hold fell away. Blue eyes, crystal clear like the turquoise stones that was the envy of any in want of beauty and wealth, bored into his own, the orbs he knew to be murky, dirty, unclean...stained. He saw them in the mirror, in reflections about, day after the day. Each one darker and more stained than the last, as the blood failed to wash out, and new scabs overlay the old, each time adding a newer, darker tone.

The other pulled him away from the drawings from his life and of those he had taken; his sin. 'Come,' he said softly, taking the bloodied hand, uncaring of the red that stained them with murder. 'Forget this.'

_I can't_. And they both knew that. How long had it been since the paintbrush had been picked up again? He had lost track of the days.

So had the other, looking at the clean, unblemished but numb hands, cold from the faucet that tried to wash away what wasn't there.

'I don't understand,' he said honestly, taking the other hand as well and pulling him into the darkened hallway of the apartment, then into the kitchen with its wooden table and chairs and the empty sink with dishes drying on a towel.

The other said nothing, only letting his brother push him into a chair and watching him take a seat himself.

'When you do this Ni-san, I worry about you.'

He knew that. He _knew_, but he could do nothing. Couldn't he see that blood coating his hands? That horrible copper-putrid layer that refused to be brushed away but darkened by the day?

'Why can't you see it?' he asked instead, staring at the hands on his lap. He had given up trying to get them clean. He'd forget them soon, before the red stains scraped over the pure keys of the normal board. And then the cycle would begin again.

'There's nothing on them,' Kouji said softly, staring at his brother.

'There is,' his brother said, almost disconnected, before seemingly snapping out of it. 'Never mind.' He pushed the chair back, hearing the scraping noises as it dragged on the uncarpeted floor. 'We'll be late.'

Kouji followed his brother, watching him flitter around, tracking down their jackets, gloves, scarves and hats as if it was a night terror, or just a brief spell. He knew better though; he knew his brother too well. Even better sometimes than his own mother, who still worked for long hours day in and day out, working hard to support a son and at the same time being taken away from him.

It seemed like a curse. Alone even with friends, ad family. Alone simply because of _what_ he was. A personification of darkness, closer than any of them could understand. An enigma that would never be truly clear to them. A shining diamond, black as the night, concealing its secrets so deep within its glamour that the little chips and cracks that managed to break its hard shell revealed little, when anything at all.

He hadn't just been a warrior using the spirits of darkness. He _had_ been the spirits of darkness. No body, soul bonded so tight that only death had torn it apart, and only then, barely so. He should know, he had taken those spirits for the briefest moment, and in that, felt nothing except it bursting against the light with power like he had never seen nor experienced.

He had never made it past the surface. How could he, ultimately understand the one who dwelled constantly in its core?

How could anyone, save perhaps himself?

Kouichi silently handed him his clothing, and the younger twin slipped them on, scarf, jacket, hat then gloves.

'Ni-san...'

A soft laugh, sounding so real if only he hadn't seen the minutes trailing behind. But if he wouldn't watch and note, who would. 'I'm fine.'

He knew he wasn't. But there was no use pressing. Diamonds rarely released the treasure they guarded, not even under the force of a volcanic explosion.

He found himself looking back at the other's hands, covered in their mittens. Cold, white...and yet the other saw them glimmering with a scarlet hue that carried the blood of allies, enemies and innocents alike.

No, he couldn't understand. And he didn't think, that if it took the experience itself to satisfy him, he would survive to attain that moment of epiphany.

Just as it was the nature of darkness to encapsulate the light...and more.

Sometimes, he wondered if he was just imagining it, piercing little hints together that may have been nothing more than just that. It passed sometimes so fast, leaving no evidence behind in its wake except the slightly haunted look that one could not notice unless they looked to close for the curtain that drew over them, keeping their secrets.

'Ni-san…'

'Hmm?' Kouichi turned to look at him, apprehension carefully concealed under a mild image of curiosity.

He remembered the images the other drew. Always in either a lead pencil or in red inked pen.

'If you could paint, what colour would you paint in?'

If the other sensed the oddity of the question, he did not react.

'Red,' was all he said, before holding the front door open, letting the freezing wind envelop the entire hearth.


	2. Reality

Author's Notes

From the few minutes since I wrote the last author's note, there isn't anything to add.

Except one thing I forgot to mention. The summary is metaphorical. He's not literally dipping a paintbrush into his blood and painting.

Kouichi's not being very clear. But then, he's Kouichi.

Open ended. On purpose. Roping it off reduces the effect I think. So make what you will of the end.

Enjoy, and tell me what you think.

* * *

><p><span>Flicks of a Brush<span>

Painting was art. But for him, it was also a reprieve. And with no other medium available to him in his solitude, what else could he use to paint his life but his own blood?

Kouichi K/Koichi & Kouji M/Koji

Rating: T

Genre/s: Angst

* * *

><p><span>Part 2 of 2 - Reality<span>

'Kouichi?'

The addressed look up at his brother, tilting his head slightly in a mild display of curiosity. Blue eyes met blue for the briefest moment, before the connection broke as a slight ripple spread from the surface, and all he could see clearly were the deep ocean blue regarding him, a slight smile on his lips.

'What is it?' Kouji said, a little annoyed.

'You tell me,' his brother said lightly, returning to the carrots he was working through with a sharp knife. 'You're the one who sounded like he was going to ask something.'

Sometimes, Kouichi made it extremely difficult to pin down anything definite about his personality. Or his mood. He had been more open in the digital world, and that first few minutes in the hospital, but perhaps that was simply the adrenaline from the constant fighting across a war-torn Digital World, followed by the briefest reward where nothing else was remembered. No doubt though, after they had all left, following the sudden flurry of tests and examinations after the 'miracle' of awakening from medical death, he would have had plenty of time for his body to catch up to his mind, and his mind to his soul. Apparently, the abnormality of the character was normal behaviour, because no-body else noticed anything, including those he hung out with on a daily basis.

He smiled constantly, though his eyes sometimes told another story before shutting off and reflecting the light. His tone varied, between light and dark, amused, curious and sometimes nostalgic and wistful, each telling stories of their own. He had to wonder though, how much of that was the real face, and how much was the portrait his brother painted to hide behind.

And why did he feel he had to hide?

An inward eye roll. That was a rhetorical question. Because he was so damn selfless and wouldn't let anyone else share his pain for one thing, and they probably wouldn't understand the full extent anyway. They, well, he to be honest, already knew the barer details, but to him, it was just a webbed mess. He supposed, in the end, he thought too differently, or perhaps he just wasn't sensitive enough.

That made him somewhat sad. His brother could read him to a 't'.

It made it difficult to wheedle anything out of his brother. He always knew. _He_ didn't.

'Nothing. Never mind.'

Kouichi turned to look at him inquisitively.

'There's something bothering you,' he said plainly, turning back to the carrots, carefully cutting them into curry size pieces.

Kouji scowled to himself. His conversation was going to go around in circles again. It always seemed to.

'You know what's bothering me,' he said plainly, and with a little more bite than he intended. 'One of these days I'm going to really find you with blood all over your hands.'

He suddenly reached out and gripped the wrist holding the knife, steering it away from the last, small piece of carrot, taking it and popping into his mouth instead. Goodness knew how many times he had cut his own hand trying to reduce that to easy cooking size.

'Don't ruin your appetite,' the other half-playfully scolded, tipping the carrots into a bowl to cook later and reaching for the peeler to start on the potatoes.

Kouji glared for real this time. Damn his brother for worrying about everyone else but himself.

'I didn't ask,' Kouichi pointed out, setting the peeler down and disposing of the scraps.

That's right. He hadn't.

'Why mention it then?'

'You tell me.'

'I would if I knew.'

Kouichi made a noise similar to a sigh, carefully chopping the potatoes. 'You want to know,' he said softly. 'You see more, but you still don't see enough. I can't explain. You'll think I'm crazy or-'

He cut off as the knife slipped. More specifically, after the first drops of crimson splattered onto the slice he had just cut off. He pulled his hands, both of them, away before the rest was blemished, but made no move to wash them off. He had tired of trying to wash off blood that remained permanently etched upon his hands.

In the end, it was Kouji who took the other's hand and stuck it under the tap, turning the faucet to lukewarm and watching the dirtied blood run down the drain. He made them to grab the antiseptic and bandages from the bathroom, but his brother stopped him.

'What are you doing?' he sounded rather confused, genuinely so.

'Bandaging your hand,' the other responded, eyebrows furrowing in slight confusion and far more so worry.

Kouichi looked at the bleeding hand, then at the other, far from blemish but looking the same. 'Leave it,' he said. 'It takes a lot of blood to bleed to death.'

'You want blood all over the potatoes?' Kouji asked wryly, the only thing that would actually work.

Only, he hadn't quite expected the other to thrust the knife at him, blade thankfully down, and slip past to intended bathroom himself.

'Umm…Ni-san?'

He wasn't sure whether it was a good thing or a bad thing that he appeared to have touched a nerve. He looked at the vegetable knife, before soaping it, washing it off, and trying to continue with the potatoes. Key word, try. All he really succeeded in doing was making some sort of mess that might resemble the debris one would commonly find on a forest floor.

His brother's pieces were beautifully cut, each nice and neat and perfectly sized.

He growled to himself, before sweeping the scrambled potatoes into the bin. Somehow, their shapes turned his appetite off. He had never managed to gain the fine art of cuisine; he even managed to burn soup somehow. Hence why he left the cooking to his brother, mother and stepmother. Their father couldn't cook any better than he could.

Five minutes. That had only taken him five minutes. And in that five minutes, he had not heard a sound that he hadn't made himself.

Which led him to the bathroom downstairs, knocking on the door.

'Ni-san?'

The door cracked open, thankfully, as he would have otherwise used the emergency keys to get in, and that wouldn't have worked nearly as well.

The younger twin pushed the door open fully, looking critically at his brother, who had washed the fresher blood from his hands. Bandages were unnecessary now, the bleeding had stopped, for the moment at least, leaving a small red scar across the palm. It seemed so insignificant now, a small cut. Still, his brother pulled out the antiseptic from the first aid kit under the sink.

Kouichi said or did nothing this time, simply letting his brother play nurse, not even wincing at the supposed sting (had he even felt it? Or was he seeing something else?), nor cracking a smile at the cartooned bandaid that was placed over the cut.

'Blame Takuya,' Kouji said anyway, half glaring at the little dragons that ran across the strip of plastic. His brother didn't even crack a smile. 'Kouichi?'

The injured hand just sort of jerked. 'Was it bleeding?'

'Wha…yeah.' He had forgotten.

'But it's stopped.'

'Yeah, it has.'

'No it hasn't.'

Kouji looked at his brother, who was staring at his hands again.

'Do you think I'm crazy?'

The younger twin jumped at the sudden question, bumping his head against the cabinet. He let loose a few profanities under his breath, to which Kouichi automatically scolded, before forming enough coherence to give an answer to the question he had been asked.

'No, of course not,' he answered immediately, and entirely truthfully. He was just hurting, that's all.

'It's not normal though.'

'No…' he admitted. 'It isn't. But you're you. You've never been normal.'

Kouichi just looked at his hands again. 'You're always here.'

The younger twin looked away, a little guiltily. 'I'm not, I-'

'You shouldn't,' the other interrupted, a little vacantly, still staring at the blood coated hands, not even noticing the blood seeping through the bandage as the wound opened up again, failing to scab over, before reaching over to brush the other's cleaner ones.

'Why?'

He pulled away, and Kouji stared at the slight trail of blood left.

'That's why.'

The elder twin got up and slipped out, and the chopping sounds in the kitchen informed him that he had started on the onions. With the-

He practically flew into the kitchen in a panic, before noting the blade chopping cleanly. Blood thinly blotched the handle, but it was barely visible. Neither hand touched the food again, knife cutting, knife sweeping.

Kouji just watched, waiting for the knife to slip again. Visions of blood; they had become a reality, coating his hands with the thin film that persisted even when being washed away. How long then, before it came itself?

He looked at his own hands, seeing the trail of blood still marking one. Just a small part of his brother's burden, but it had given him the barest understanding and even less of that weight.

No-one else knew. No-one else understood. He knew little himself, but he knew he would not tell. He would not betray that.

His brother was still an enigma, shrouded in mystery and a veil of darkness that concealed the grief and sorrow of his past. Who knew what he had gone through as Cherbumon's right hand. Who knew what he had done as Duskmon. Who knew the full extent of the rampage of Velgemon, what had finally sated his painful hunger before he had been placated enough to be drawn back to Cherbimon. Who knew how and why it continued rebounding now, at times where the simplest things should not bring back such pain.

His brother didn't want him there, if only to spare himself. He would not have that, to save his brother as well as he could.

The knife slipped again, and his breath stopped for a painful moment, till it clattered to the floor.

Kouichi picked it up carefully, before continuing the process with a fresh, peeled, potato, carefully slicing it into curry-sized pieces.

'What did you see?' his brother asked carefully.

He stiffened slightly, before willing his body to relax and continuing the mechanical process. 'Nothing.'

He was lying. Kouji knew that. But he noticed the other had said nothing of late, though he had been waiting apprehensively for something to happen, some reaction, some words, some inlook.

He hadn't been waiting for them to become reality.

'Kouichi,' he repeated sternly. 'What _was_ it?'

He said nothing but turned, and the knife suddenly flew from his hands, landing at the other's feet, if only because the other had rapidly taken a step back from the flying projectile.

'Do you want my blood to stain your hands?' the elder twin asked. 'Or the other way around?'

Kouji failed to understand immediately, heart still pounding from the sudden scare. Kouichi just picked up the knife and continued cutting, oblivious to the point where hallucinations had impinged upon reality.


End file.
